Thousand (Paper) Cranes
by MadPoppetNyne
Summary: He wasn't always the Undertaker. He hadn't always enjoyed a good laugh. Once, he'd been the sole friend of a boy who redefined meaning of life- and changed him in the process. A three-part take on Undertaker's last years as a reaper.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **Poppet here. I've been away from the fanfiction writing scene for quite a while and am slowly getting back into it. The following brainchild is the result of a favor to my sister for her English class on six elements in gothic literature. I must warn I'm not very familiar with Cockney or accents in general, although I did some research on 18th century London for this piece. Hope you like it!_

* * *

_**London, 1887**_

It was a dark and stormy night, with thunder clapping and lightning flashing, creating shadows of monstrous skeletons and cobwebs in the shady shop in London's East End. Coffins stood propped against the walls or haphazardly sat on the ground, some with open maws ready to trap and consume the first poor fool who tripped and fell into them. Another strike of lightning illuminated a dark-clothed silhouette sitting behind an autopsy table turned desk, catching a glimpse of silvery-gray hair before darkness took over.

A manic giggle pierced the darkness. "Ah, Poppy," spoke a voice. "I do love nights such as these, when the world is covered in shadows. Such splendid weather." The soft _crunch-crunch _of careful chewing filled the pause which followed as memories danced in his mind and began to materialize before his eyes—first as grainy and unsteady as an old film, slowly becoming more and more real. It hadn't been too long ago, and he hadn't forgotten. He just wasn't one to remember the past. He'd never been.

* * *

_**London, 1832 **_

A handsome man with square-rimmed glasses and long silver hair sat deep in thought on a bench in the nearly empty St. James' Park, unbothered by the visitors, who passed before him without paying notice to his presence. _Not that they should_, he mused as he continued staring blankly at the canal. He could stay however long he wanted—a couple hours, a few days, maybe even a month—and probably the only ones who'd see him were the goners. He was tired; he'd been doing his job for far too long to feel anything aside from this frustration and boredom. _Maybe I need to quit._

He found himself startled out of his brooding when he noticed a dirty kid of maybe nine or ten years had stopped in front of him. Two pairs of eyes, one lime green and the other black, held gazes till the boy cracked a gap-toothed grin and boldly declared, "Cheese an' Rice!* Ain't you one funny-looking granpops?" A faint frown crossed the man's features.

_Grandpop?_ "Where did you get the impression I am old?"

The boy surprised him by throwing his hands in the air and replying, "S'obvious! Only ol' mens got white 'air. Why else you've white 'air?" At the man's lack of an answer, he nodded repeatedly as if agreeing with himself and shoved his hands into his pockets, wiggling his fingers out the holes in them while shifting from foot to foot and regarding him with curiosity. A couple better-off people (if their clothing was anything to go by) kept to the far side of the walkway and spared disgusted glances at the disheveled kid, who seemed to pay no mind, probably used to it.

Seeing he didn't have any plans to leave, the man asked him, "Where is your mother? The park will close soon."

"Me Mum's gone and me Pa's a good fo' nuthin'," was the boy's casual reply. "Me Mum was a moll* in Covent Garden till she was kicked out when she got sick with the great pox*." He shrugged. "Ah been livin' with the Lewrys out in Whitechapel since Ah can remembuh."

A voice calling out to him made him stop and search for the source till he saw the constable approaching them, who ordered him to get himself back home. The kid grinned and, pointing at the man he'd been speaking to, called back, "Dun worry, Mister Constable! Th'old man here's me mate and will make sure I get back safe." The constable stared at him in confusion and huffed.

"Cease the tomfoolery!" replied the constable. "Or I shall get you into Bedlam* if you keep it up. You had better not be here when I come around." With that, the constable continued his rounds around the park and disappeared in the next bend.

The boy tilted his head at this and turned to look back at his white-haired companion, his eyes slowly widening with understanding. "Are you a ghost?" asked he in a whisper. The man's expression remained unreadable.

"I am a grim reaper," answered him. "A gatherer of souls. A harbinger of death." The child mouthed those words a couple times before daring to ask the reason for him being there. "Even reapers grow tired of their work and must rest," was the response. It was to be expected that the boy would stare at him while he thought about all this, but the self-proclaimed reaper didn't anticipate having a grimy hand being offered to him.

"Me name's Timothy Bramley an', if you dun mind, I'd like to be friends with Mr. Reaper." Surprised, but not repelled, the reaper found his hand slowly rising to shake Timothy's, bringing another imperfect but glowing grin to the cheeky brat's face.

* * *

_1 - Cheese and Rice: Cockney for "Jesus Christ."_

_2 - Molly/Moll: slang for prostitute, at least back in 18th-19th century England_

_3 - Great pox: common name for syphillis_

_4 - Bedlam: psychiatric hospital_


	2. Chapter 2

_**London, 1834**_

"Give it back! 'Tis mine, you bloody fool!" More grappling, indistinguishable yelling and a string of profanities filled the alley.

"As hell it is!" came the heated reply. "Not me fault you dolts made it easy to steal!" The statement was followed by a fist which connected squarely with a jaw and sent the rival down onto a puddle of murky brown water. The other two boys fell on the victor with the intention of ripping away his gains. Instead of running away, he squared himself and landed well-aimed hits on his assailants. A nose cracked and blood soon flowed from it. A swift jab to the liver sent the other one sprawling to the ground. The first attacker had recovered and came running with the intention to tackle him but was caught by surprise. The victim ducked and, using his momentum, lifted him over his head, making him fall flat on his back.

"Night-night, fool," was the last he heard before the living daylights were knocked out of him by a practiced tap to the neck.

It was drizzling that afternoon as bare feet ran over water puddles down the streets in London's infamous East End followed by polished black shoes which took careful steps around them before coming out into the main street and rounding the corner into a rundown building. Twelve-year old Tim clattered up the stairs and up to the roof, falling to the ground and drawing out a loaf of clearly old bread sprinkled with mold stains, which he picked at before chewing away. The Reaper frowned upon arriving and noticing his choice of food, asking if it was safe for him to eat that.

Tim snorted and waved the bread as he answered, "'Aven't you heard beggars can't be choosers? Is better t'ave a bite o'moldy bread in yer belly than nuthin at all… By th' way, thanks for the fighting lessons, sure came in handy. We been eatin' better fo' a while now thanks to you. You saw how Ah sent that bastard a-flyin'? Heh, that'll teach 'em bullies. Besides, this ain't so bad. Pick the mold an' you got as fine a piece o' bread as any." As if to prove his statement, he started to whistle one of those popular folk songs only to end it just as suddenly. "Gots me a-thinkin', Reaper. You never told me yer name, y'know. Ah mean, we've known each other long enough that callin' you 'Mr. Reaper's' startin' to sound like 'Mr. Horse' or 'Mrs. Tabby.'" His companion hesitated.

"Alexander Griffiths." Tim hummed as if in approval.

"You look like it, sure do. Say, Alexander—_Mr. Griffiths? Alex? Zounds! I'll call you Alexander an' that's that!_—what is it you reapers do?"

"We are sent to those who have been listed to die and use our death scythes to read their cinematic record," replied Alexander while picking at invisible lint. "You humans would have heard of it as 'seeing your life flash before your eyes.' We then gather the soul and repeat the cycle." Tim thought about this for a moment before asking if they went all over the world. "Yes," answered the reaper, and the boy made a sound of awe.

Jumping to his feet, Timothy wrapped the remaining three-fourths of his loaf in a cloth and turned to declare he wanted to be like him when he was older, earning a smirk from Alexander, who asked if he wanted to become a reaper. Tim nodded eagerly. "It sure beats bein' worked to death. Haven't you heard the adults say that everyone's the same before God and Death?" Satisfied, Tim straightened his shirt and trousers and strode away saying he better get back to work, "else me sweet Lottie Lewry gets me hide."

As they walked downstairs, he added, "Maybe when I'm a reaper, I'll be able to take her all over th'world and make 'er happy, and get 'er away from th' misery of this hellhole. Pretty as an angel as she is, her fate's with the bawds*—if she's lucky, she'll get taken in by one of the fancy nunneries.* If there's any way I can stop that, then Ah'll do everything Ah can to save her; besides, Ah like 'er, she likes me, 'tis a good reason as any. Till then, I can only give 'er and 'er folks whate'er Ah can steal and earn so she don't have to join the molls at Covent Garden, and that's enough for us both." They came out into the street and continued walking.

Ever the objective third party, Alexander pointed out, "Being a reaper has its… disadvantages: near-sightedness, irregular working hours, eternal youth and a nearly immortal body. Days become the same, years become muddled, and when you least realize it, three centuries have passed. But you cannot forget the faces or names of those whose lives you claimed. They haunt your days, your nights, till you wonder what exactly is the purpose of living forever in this monotony."

A man coming down towards them was heading straight toward Alexander, but neither he nor Timothy moved to make way. The man walked through the grim reaper as if he were a spirit, shuddering when a sudden shiver ran over his body, giving him goose bumps. "In short," continued Alexander, unbothered by the occurrence and evidently unaffected by it. "Each one must carry his own load. There is no glory in relieving another of his burden to become a slave on their behalf." Tim shrugged as they rounded a corner.

"They say you've got to do something to tell if you like it or not. Ah could always quit bein' a reaper if Ah got enough of it, right?" Alexander answered with a hum of affirmation. "Maybe you forgot, but most folks got to struggle just to live. When you ain't got food an' clothes an' a roof o'er yer head, you'd better have someone to keep you fighting and keep you warm, yer body and yer heart, or you'll lose yerself and die like a mutt."

In the busier street, people bumped into him and walked through Alexander without mumbling apologies; Tim stepped around most of them, only every now and then stumbling into his reaper friend. Tim didn't bother apologizing either and pushed onward, not minding that they saw him talking to himself. "You need to belong somewhere, to someone. E'en if it might bring pain in th' future, ain't it better to 'ave felt belonging once? Ah'd prefer a hundred times being scolded by Lottie than to not 'ave her at all… Ah s'ppose the thing's not to be left alone in this cruel world," Tim concluded as a lovely girl in a worn dress with rich dark blue hair and a mole under her left eye waved at him from her spot in the sidewalk, earning a wide grin and a peck on the cheek from him in return as he presented the wrapped loaf to her.

* * *

_1 - Bawd: an older woman, normally a former prostitute, who ran brothels and nunneries_

_2 - Nunnery: refers to a "fashionable" brothel, where prostitutes were educated to attend wealthier patrons_


	3. Chapter 3

_**London, 1836**_

It was probably the first time in his very long life he could say he'd been concerned for someone. Alexander watched from his post beside the makeshift cot as Timothy shivered under the thin blanket, mumbling deliriously about paper cranes. The reaper had told him about a custom in a distant country about folding one thousand paper cranes to get a wish—that had been before the boy had been claimed by the fever and the smallpox had covered every inch of skin.

As much as Lottie Lewry and her family liked the rascal, he just couldn't stay in the house else he got everyone else infected with the measles. They'd lived on the streets since, with Tim stealing to survive until he was far too ill to keep it up, and Alexander took on the task of snagging bread and fetching clean water to keep him alive. He couldn't heal the boy. He couldn't pay for a doctor. He knew it was inevitable, but it was the first time he'd grown to care about someone, and he wouldn't allow the inevitable to happen if he could help it.

So he kept watch, day and night.

It still sent shivers up his spine when he heard a familiar voice call his name, which he identified without having to turn. "William Spears." William, dressed in a tidy black suit and hair neatly combed back, fixed his glasses upon his nose and asked, "It is fancy to see you here, chief. So is this where you have been since collecting Marie Antoinette's soul?"

Ignoring him, and still without facing him, Alexander inquired, "Have you come for the boy's soul?" When William answered in the affirmative, the white-haired reaper rose to his feet as his scythe appeared in his hand. "I am afraid I cannot allow that."

Alexander swiped at his dark counterpart, who ducked and jumped out of the blade's reach before calling on his own scythe. "May I remind you, chief," said he, "that Article 92.3 of the Regulations allows me to use my scythe on you should you refuse to allow me to carry out my task, and Article 104.1 states you will be tried for interfering with a fellow agent's duties."

"To hell with the regulations, with being a reaper!" growled Alexander as he launched another attack on William. "This boy has been fighting to survive since he was born—he begged and stole so he would not starve because no one took pity on him, and he learned to depend on his wit and skill to stay alive. If saving him means the end of my career, then so be it! I am fed with the likes of it!" He outreached himself to strike his opponent, only to find him gone and looking up in mid-motion—before being struck across the face with William's scythe, breaking his glasses and making him blank out with shock for a moment before the pain kicked in forcefully and blood spurted from the wound.

In the middle of his own suffering, he saw with his good eye as William walked to Tim's side and sunk the scythe into the boy, who gasped as his cinematic record began to play before his terrified eyes. Alexander forced himself toward the boy's side and fell to his knees beside him as the memories flashed in seconds.

_A gape-toothed grin on an evening at St. James' Park. A pattering of footsteps down a dank back alley. Moldy bread. Sparring sessions in the building rooftop at night. A whistled song._ _Lottie Lewry's beautiful smiling face. His first kiss. Bloodied knuckles after pummeling the idiot who'd bothered Lottie. Eating pound cake for the first time. "You've gotta laugh so you dun cry." Alexander fixing an improvised roof over him to keep out the rain._

As the last scene faded, he felt a grip on his trench coat and saw Tim's disfigured hand as the fourteen-year old boy looked up at him with fright in his dark eyes, whispering, "I dun wan' t' die." He breathed shallowly once, twice, then released a shaky third which became his last. Alexander didn't notice when William left with Tim's soul.

He came to himself when there was a cracking of thunder and a flashing of lightning. _A dark and stormy night_, he thought as he raised his wounded face to the sky. Lowering his eyes back to the corpse, Alexander stared for a moment longer before scooping it into his arms and making his way through the shadowed Whitechapel streets as the sky tore open and down poured water, soaking him to the bone. He passed street after street, moving slowly but with purpose among the rundown buildings of the East End and finally stopping at the riverbank.

The Thames River flowed without mind to the inner turmoil going on inside the grim reaper standing by its banks. The wind buffeted his marred face, contesting with the sorrow within to see which hurt the most. Gripping Tim's body to himself, Alexander felt everything brew within him like the wild storm raging around him and released a bellow of rage and pain into the sky. He screamed till he could no more, till he didn't know if the stinging in his eyes was from the wound or the rain, or if those were tears. He decided he didn't care.

Without further preamble, Alexander stepped into the water, unfazed by the strong current. When the river reached his waistline, he turned to Tim's body and said, "This is not what you dreamed, but it is as much as can be done." He frowned and lowered his head. "I vow to watch out for Charlotte. She will not be worked to death in a brothel or otherwise. I will make sure she lives happy. I swear."

Letting out a breath, he lowered the wrapped body to the river and released it to the mercy of the current, watching as it floated momentarily before being swallowed by the water. _It might not reach the sea, but it will travel farther than he ever did in life._ He stood there long after he'd lost sight of the corpse, clothes and hair plastered to his body, as he realized he'd lost more than an entertaining companion.

He'd lost his only friend.

* * *

_**London, 1887**_

"His body never turned up, and I like to think it found its way to the open sea. Lottie Lewry never again knew need. Tim was right: she was too pretty to not be noticed. She ended up catching the eye of a certain gentleman and lived surrounded by jewels and finery till the day she died, but she never forgot the poor and passed on her kindness to her son."

The sun had begun its slow but steady ascent in the night sky, and now a shaft of light shone through a crack in the window, illuminating a pale scarred face half-covered by long silvery-white bangs, a wide smile drawn upon his lips. A hand with long black nails reached into the darkness and drew out a skull with a crown of poppy flowers on it. "Can you believe it, Poppy? It took a human brat to teach a reaper about life. Hee, hee." He paused and leaned his ear to the skull's jaw as if listening. "Oh, the paper cranes? It took me a while, but I folded all one thousand of them and placed one in every place Tim wanted to visit: Paris, Rome, Vienna, St. Peterburg, the heart of Africa… It seemed right."

Doing so did not bring him back, but it put his memory to rest; and, he supposed, that was enough for them both.

* * *

_**A/N:** And this is it, Part 3! Thank you for taking the time to read this! Wish you all a great day._


End file.
